Shadows
by allthingsholy
Summary: He'd died a little too that day, parts of him collapsing with the rest of Sunnydale. They didn't talk about it. They didn't talk about her. They didn't talk about much. Xanderfic, postChosen.


Title: ShadowsAuthor: allthingsholy  
Rating: PG  
Email: allthingsholy(at)yahoo(dot)com; feedback is like candy.  
Disclaimer: _Really_ not mine.  
Summary: "He'd died a little too that day, parts of him collapsing with the rest of Sunnydale. They didn't talk about it. They didn't talk about her. They didn't talk about much."  
Spoilers: The entire show, through end of S7.  
A/N: This was written for dollsome at LJ, part of a lyric challenge. The lyric is "I'd rather not talk about your dead ex-boyfriends over coffee" by Harry and the Potters. And it's unbeta'ed.

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The cafe was dark and still, the muted noise of conversation and silver-on-ceramic spilling out the windows, out the doors. Xander drank his coffee black, liked the bitter, hot taste down the back of his throat; it reminded him of Anya. Buffy drank her coffee with too much sweetener and too much cream; it didn't remind her of any man she'd ever loved.

"I thought I saw Angel the other day." Her comment didn't come out of nowhere, not exactly, but he was still caught off guard.

"He's in LA, Buff." Xander looked at the space just above her left shoulder, looked out the window and at nothing at all. She couldn't see passed his eyes.

"I know he's in LA, but I just...You know, I thought I saw him." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, tossed the rest over her shoulder. She picked up her spoon and drew lazy circles in the cooling coffee.

"Paris is a long way from California." Xander reached up, adjusted his eyepatch. He brought his hands back down, raised his coffee to his lips; he cradled the cup in one hand as he drummed nervous fingers on the table's wood with another.

"I know, Xander. I was just saying." He was like this now, was darker and short-tempered. He missed Anya, obviously, but it was more than that; he'd died a little too that day, parts of him collapsing with the rest of Sunnydale. They didn't talk about it. They didn't talk about her. They didn't talk about much. "He's with Spike, I heard." She cleared her throat, set her spoon on her saucer with a tiny metallic clink, tried to catch his eye. "That's just about the most bizarre thing ever, right? I mean, I know they worked together back in the day, all terrorizing mankind with their bloodthirst or whatever, but it's weird, don't you think?"

The clouds outside parted and sun filtered in through the windows, thick and heavy onto tables and chairs and people. She raised her head, squinted against the light. His fingers drummed and she wanted to grab them, hold them, hold him until he cried or laughed or did anything but just sit there. He took another sip of coffee; she pulled her hands into her lap.

"Do you think they get along now?" She flicked her hair off her face with a turn of her head, twisted a ring round one long, slender finger. "I can't imagine them not fighting, or not biting each other--figuratively, obviously--24/7. Because--"

He cut her off abruptly, set his cup on the table with more force than necessary. Still didn't meet her eyes. "Can we not talk about this right now?" He finally stopped his fingers against the wood as he ran both hands through his hair, settled them a second behind his neck. She thought he looked old; she felt old.

She didn't snap, not exactly, but the not talking bothered her more now than it had before. "I was just making conversation. Why can't we talk about this now?"

"'Cause I'd rather not talk about your dead ex-boyfriends over coffee." His tone was sharper than it used to be, less sharp than it usually was these days. He met her eyes, finally; she wanted to cry.

She bowed her head, turned one hand over the other, tried to imagine silences not filled with grief and longing. "Technically it's 'un-dead'--"

"Buffy."

"Yeah." She picked up her spoon, began to stir her coffee again. He settled both hands on the table and his gaze on that same spot over her left shoulder.

The clash of utensils and soft slide of words drowned out all the things they didn't say.


End file.
